What They Didn't Know
by writersblock242
Summary: Harvey and Barbara Cade were always burdened by their son, but after his death at least one of them regrets the way they treated him. Rewritten in first person.


**Author's Note**: I rewrote this in first person. I hope it's better.

Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders.

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The kid died just over a week ago. Shit, only six days ago he was still breathing; now, he was six feet under.

Johnny was dead—that reality hadn't quite sank in yet. Part of me was certain this was all some sick joke his buddies were playing on me for not being a good enough mother to him. I dunno what the kid wanted, but I did my best. Kept a roof over his head and fed him. Sure, he got knocked around every now and then, but what doesn't kill you makes you stronger. It builds character, and he oughta be grateful we gave him character, but he wasn't. He never had been, and now he was dead.

I still could hear the doctor's voice as he told me, but I couldn't quit pinpoint the feeling. I know you were supposed to be upset—cry, sob, and all that emotional bullshit—but what I felt was something between guilt and rage. Guilt that I wasn't crying, and rage that he had to get himself killed so young.

I don't care who you are. There's nothing out there that can prepare a person for the words, "Your son's dead." I could still the doctor's voice as they'd said them—matter of fact and emotionless. The words still haven't set in yet, and I don't think they ever will.

I sighed. I still wanted to cry; every second I was awake, I wanted to flat out bawl. But the tears weren't there. They were suppressed deep down into some crevice of my soul I never let to see the light of day.

That was Harvey's fault. Whenever I looked at him, I wanted to cringe. Like now. There he was, the man responsible for my coldness, sitting in that stupid, beat up armchair guzzling back a bottle of whiskey. _Everyday_ he'd just sit there and drink until he passed out or got pissed enough to stand and deal with his rotten life. Everything was just rotten in this house. Hell, in this shit-hole of a city, too.

"Barb, be a good little wife and do some damn cleaning. Start with little what's-his-name's room. He never cleans it himself." He ran his fingers through his oily hair and sniffed. Disgusting. And to think he used to be handsome …

"He never cleans it? Dammit, Harvey! He's been dead for a week now." I picked up one of his empty bottles and smashed it to pieces on the hard, plaster wall behind him. "And no, I won't clean it. Do it yourself!"

He got up from his chair and got a hard grip on my wrist. "You _will _do what you are told." His possessed dark eyes always made me want to collapse, and I almost did. Instead, I yanked my arm out of his grip and stalked off to Johnny's bedroom.

I hated listening to him. Christ, I hated him—hated being shoved around like a goddamned dog—but somehow I always found myself following his orders. I used to be able to say I did it out of love, and somewhere deep in my heart, I probably still did love him—somewhere buried beneath all the bitterness and hatred. I could never leave. No, that small piece of my heart I wasn't sure I even had kept me around.

I chewed on the insides of my cheeks as I turned the knob to Johnny's door. I hadn't been in that room for years; not since Johnny was about seven_._

I took one look at the bed, and I remembered him being sick and how we were almost like a family then. Harvey and I would go to work and come home, I'd have dinner ready for him, and we'd all sit down and eat.

Sometimes Johnny would be so sick that Harvey would have to stay home—like any caring and concerned father might. But then, Harvey started staying home a lot. Sometimes the kid was really sick; other times not. Harvey'd always been lazy, so it didn't shock me. Piece of shit took any excuse he could get to stay home and make _me _do all the working. Ironic he still called himself the man of the house and expected me to clean and make his dinner after all he did was lie around all day. I didn't argue, though—that was back when he actually had a few redeeming qualities. Sure, he was lazy, but he at least kinda cared about Johnny.

Well, that soon went out of the window, too. I guess his boss didn't like him missing work all the time, and Harvey was laid off. I'd told him it could happen, but he never did listen to me. The night he was fired he came home so drunk he could barely stand. I asked him if he wanted his dinner, but he pushed me out of the way.

Harvey was one of those drunks that lost all control. I'd known he could get violent since I dated him. Hell, he'd pick fights in bars over guys accidently brushing shoulders with him. Truth be told, he terrified me when he was soused.

I'd hurried into Johnny's room to get him, but then I realized-he was on the couch. Harvey started screaming at him about how it was all his fault and that we were going to lose our house because of him.

At seven Johnny didn't understand why this was happening. He went from having a dad that would toss a baseball with him to a dad that would blame him for all of the problems in his life. I hid my face so all I remember were the sounds: Harvey's roaring yell, the sound of the metal end of the belt hitting Johnny's back and arms, and Johnny's muffled whimpering. Those sounds. God, I'll never forget those sounds.

That was the last time Johnny cried.

"Go to bed," he ordered, and I did. At least he had the decency to sleep on the couch while I slept in the bed.

I scanned the room. It wasn't much different from when I'd been in it years earlier. Sure, I'd walked past it, but I wasn't too focused on it. I wandered over to the dresser deciding that I would look through all the stuff to decide what we should keep and what we should sell. The top of the dresser was cluttered with little pieces of junk like playing cards, candy bar wrappers, and cigarette cartons. I rolled my eyes at the mess and opened the first drawer. It was filled with nothing, but a few t-shirts and some jeans ripped beyond repair. I instantly cursed him under my breath for destroying things Harvey and me worked to pay for. There was no so second drawer, just a hole where it was.

There were some clothes hanging off of the chair-the only other thing in the room besides the bed. I picked it up and tossed it into the hole where the drawer should have been.

I moved to his bed and knocked off the pillow but all that was there was a half-empty pack of cigarettes. I then slid my hand under the mattress, but I stopped when I felt a piece of paper. I wondered why he'd have paper under his pillow. I just pulled it out and instantly ripped it in half, underestimating its significance but then a few words that caught me, "my dad's gun." I sat down onto the squeaky mattress and began to read.

Dear Dallas,

I was gonna give this to Pony, but after his folks got killed in that car wreck I didn't want to put this on him. Dal, everything isn't going right for me. My parents don't give a damn what happens to me. My mom doesn't even know if I'm there or not half the time, and I have so many bruises and scars from my dad, but you know that. And, I'm so stupid that I can't finish school. It ain't like I can get a job or nothing either. Dally, it just ain't worth living any more. By the time you get this I'll be dead. I'm gonna take my dad's gun and just fire straight into my head. I'll be right by the river so hopefully I'll fall right in and no one will have to see me again. Hopefully with me gone everyone will be happier, especially my folks. Oh, and don't tell anyone about this. I know you'll wanna tell the boys, but don't ok?

Your Pal,

Johnny Cade

All of a sudden I got real dizzy, and I couldn't feel anything. I guess that's what it's like to be stunned. He wanted to die? I didn't understand why. We gave him everything he needed and whatever we did he deserved it. This "Dallas" guy was probably one of those hoodlums that Johnny wanted to see instead of me—his own mother. What ungrateful brat wanted to see their gang over their mother?

"Harvey!" I yelled, hoping he would come and maybe help me look at this. Inside I knew he wouldn't. I took a deep breath and went out to show him the letter. "Harvey, look at this."

He pushed it away and said, "Ain't you supposed to be cleaning instead of reading little notes?"

"But…." I started, and reduced myself to show desperation.

"But, nothing." He snatched the letter from me and ripped it up. "Now, go finish."

I sighed and went into the kitchen. I took my bottle of rum out of the cupboard and drank some of it.

I went back into the room and started to fold up everything and either put it on the bed or in the trash. Every little thing I picked up told me more about the kid. He smoked a lot and liked to play cards. I also learned that he'd been wearing the same clothes for years and he had a friend named Ponyboy that drew him a picture of a horse.

I smiled and tried to remember Johnny's smile. All I could remember was him as a baby, but it was nice. Johnny—my son—was starting to become a real kid, not just a hood. I felt my eyes water little, I quickly wiped my eyes and continued sorting through his belongings. After all of this was gone, there would be no evidence that John Harvey Cade existed.

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A/N: Endless thanks go out to the lovely Allison who beta-d this for me. I'm in her debt.


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